


Under the Weather

by NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Fever, Home, Hurt/Comfort, Sick!Killian, Vomiting, headache, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7074988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable/pseuds/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian gets sick during the downtime before the next villain arrives.  First part to "After the Storm".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from lavoyageuse21that I happened to have been working on anyway. I’m so sorry this took so long, I’ve been under the weather myself this last week and while it gave me plenty of material, it was also really hard to type with my eyes closed. I hope this works!
> 
> Part 2: [After the Storm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6907213).

He was quieter than usual, that was her first clue.  

Killian talked during dinner, answered her questions easily and with his usual penchant for the dramatic retelling of events that happened during the day.  But it seemed off, as if he was saving his words, using only the fewest necessary for conversation.

Emma dismissed her worry as ridiculous and helped him clear the table.  She washed the dishes while he put away the rest of the food - matching the leftovers to a perfectly-sized container was a skill he was quite proud of, as well as finding space for it neatly in the refrigerator.  “Fridge Tetris,” she’d called it with a laugh the first time she saw the stacks arranged evenly on the shelves, and he’d only raised an eyebrow in confusion until she explained the reference.  He usually hummed softly while they worked, sometimes she joined in but more often than not, she was content to just listen to him.

That night, he was completely silent as he moved about the kitchen putting things away.  Her second clue.

“Everything okay?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel.  

He nodded, a half-smile tugging at his mouth as he put the last of the containers on the shelf.  “Aye, love.  Just a bit tired.  Might go to bed early tonight, if that’s all right?”

“My father wore you out fixing the truck?” she grinned.

“Perhaps.”

She frowned, leaning against the counter.  He closed the refrigerator door and turned to face her.  He didn’t really _look_ like anything was wrong with him, maybe a bit more pale than usual, but he _had_ just spent all day in a fume-filled garage bent over the ancient vehicle’s internal wiring.  His eyes squinted ever so slightly at the corners, maybe from exhaustion, maybe from something else, but he smiled and it seemed like _him_.

She was probably just overreacting.  Him dying a few times in the last eight months had nothing to do with her recurring nightmares of losing him in some totally mundane way, probably.

But when he leaned over to peck her cheek, a whispered, “Goodnight, Emma,” against her skin, she knew she was right.

“Killian, you’re hot!” she exclaimed, her cheek warm where his lips had touched her.

“Well, love, I know I’m not bad looki-”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I mean, you’re burning up.”  She reached a hand to touch his forehead.  

“I’m fine, love.”  He blushed and pulled away, but not before she managed to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

“You’re not fine,” she said, ignoring the nervous fluttering in her chest.  “You have fever.  I don’t know how high, I don’t even think I have a thermometer.  Do you have any symptoms?  When did you notice you weren’t feeling well?  Can I even heal fever with magi-”

“Emma, stop.”  He put his hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t feel nearly as grounded as she usually would at his touch.  “I’m just a bit under the weather, I’ve had a slight headache for a few hours.  If you wanted to try to use your magic, I wouldn’t be opposed, but it’s nothing a little sleep won’t cure.”

She let out her breath with a soft sigh and tried to calm herself.  It was just a headache and a touch of fever, surely he’d survived worse in all his years, right?

“Do you-” she started, alarmed at how shaky her voice sounded.  She coughed, trying to clear it, to sound steadier than the freaked-out, overprotective girlfriend she probably came across as at the moment.  “Do you want me to come to bed with you?”

He grinned and, for a moment, he didn’t _look_ all that sick.  “I never say no to sharing a bed with you, Emma,” he said quietly, “but I’m not up for more than just sleeping, I’m afraid.”

“No, of course not, I just meant, you know, for company.”  

Damn, she sounded like an _idiot_ , blubbering and afraid.  He seemed to understand her worry, his smile softening as he nodded.  “If that makes you feel better, then of course.  I’ll meet you upstairs.”  He pressed another soft - _too warm_ \- kiss to her cheek and headed for the steps.

She looked around at the house, quiet and empty despite the sounds of Killian getting ready for bed upstairs.  This house, this future they thought they’d never have, this was their second chance, and she’d be damned if she let a stupid virus or whatever tear down all the hopes he’d helped her rebuild after she lost him so many times.

Her hand hurt suddenly.  She glanced down at it, saw the fist she held tightly against the counter.  Slowly, she forced herself to relax, to breathe, to unclench her fingers.  “He’ll be okay,” she whispered as she went to turn off the lights.  “He’ll be fine.”

She followed Killian upstairs and joined him in bed.

* * *

Killian tried to sleep, he really did, but the pounding in his head wouldn’t let up no matter what position he took.  The beat of pain matched that of his heart and, while he loved the constant reminder of his status among the living, it didn’t have to be so _loud_.

He rolled onto his back for the third time in an hour with a quiet sigh.  At least, he thought it was an hour, he couldn’t bear the thought of looking at the too-bright numbers on the clock he’d turned face down before getting into bed.  Emma had joined him just after, pressed her hands gently to the sharpest point of pain on the side of his head, but her magic didn’t seem to work on internal illnesses.  He assured her it was all right and, while she didn’t quite seem to believe it, she didn’t argue, just curled up beside him, her fingers massaging his scalp gently until he’d dozed off.

But he was up again soon after, the throbbing in his skull rising and falling in intensity though never quite disappearing no matter how he lay.  Emma slept beside him and he tried not to wake her, to keep his movements and breathing as quiet as he could, but the pain was almost too much.  The tiny white pills on his bedside didn’t seem to help either, except to increase the nausea that had taken hold in his stomach.

And it wasn’t just the headache.  His skin crawled with fever, an ache deep in his bones, and he alternated rapidly between too cold and too warm.  Some moments the blanket wasn’t nearly enough, his entire body shivering with a chill he hadn’t felt in years.  Other times, he wanted to peel off his own skin, he was so hot, his thin shirt and shorts drenched with sweat before he could get the covers off.

He groaned softly, the pain in his head increasing sharply with each breath he took,  He rolled onto his side, his hand pressing as hard as he could tolerate against his sweat-soaked hair, and tried to fall back asleep.

* * *

Emma woke earlier than usual the next morning, the sun barely more than a dim glow through the curtains over the window as she stretched.  She’d fallen asleep on her left side, not her normal way of sleeping, and she rolled over to balance the quiet ache she felt along her shoulder.

She caught a glimpse of Killian’s dark hair peeking over the top of the blanket, the covers rustling with his movements as he woke.  No, wait, he wasn’t waking up, but he was still moving, shaking almost.

“Killian?” she said quietly, reaching a hand to touch his shoulder.  “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer, but now she could feel the trembling of his body beneath the covers.   _No_.  She sat up in the bed and leaned over to place her hand on his forehead.

_No, no, no._

“Killian, wake up,” she said, a note of panic lining the edges of her voice as she gently shook his arm.  “Please, Killian.”

He groaned softly and leaned back into her as she sighed heavily in relief.  “What's wrong?” he rasped, squinting up at her as he blinked away sleep, a grimace across his face.

“Your fever, it’s really high, warmer than last night,” she said shakily.  “And you were shivering.  I got... nervous,” she finished in a whisper, tears already filling her eyes.  She hated feeling like this, that the slightest little thing was going to end in his horrible demise, again, that she couldn’t protect him from the fever that didn’t go away with the magic she’d tried last night.  She hated that she’d lost him so many times that this fear was not even so far out, for them.

She hated being so _afraid,_ about something that was probably nothing.

“Hey,” he murmured, rolling all the way over to face her.  “I’m fine, Emma.  I’m right here.  It’s okay, love, really.”  He touched her cheek, gathering the tear that nearly escaped and brushing it away with roughened fingers she knew so well.  “I promise you, nothing is going to happen to me.”

“You can’t promise that,” she whispered, more tears taking the place of the one he’d swept aside.  “Not after everything that _has_ happened.”

“Emma, look at me,” he said as he nudged her chin up toward him.  She raised her eyes and looked.  A thin sheen of sweat glistened softly on his skin in the rapidly-growing light from outside, his face pinched with the pain of the headache he still seemed to have, skin slightly paler than usual.  But it was still _him_ , his dimples just slightly indented in his cheeks, his reddish stubble that covered his jaw, his eyes blue as always, dark hair shaggy and sticking out at all angles.  Him, here, not dying.

“I swear to you, love, it’s just a headache with a slight fever,” he said gently, familiar fingers caressing her cheeks, familiar eyes looking right into hers.  Familiar, familiar, _alive._  “In a few days, it’ll be nothing worth mentioning.  If I feel like it’s getting worse, more than I can handle here at home, I promise I’ll let you know immediately.  All right?”

“Okay,” she managed to whisper.  “But I’m not going into work today, I’m staying right here and-”

He shook his head, then winced, the pain in his head no doubt protesting the sudden movement.  “You’re going, Emma.  You can’t force me to recover just by sitting here and watching me sleep.  Go, get through that mountain of paperwork David’s always grumbling about, I’ll be okay here.”

“Killian, I can’t just leave-”

“Go,” he said again, his hand on  her arm squeezing tightly.  “Please.”

Clearly it was important for him that she go.  Maybe he didn’t like being watched when he was sick, or maybe it _was_ a good idea for her to let him recover without her hovering over him doing nothing but worry.  

Slowly, she nodded.  “But you’ll sleep?”

“Aye, I’ll not leave this bed unless I have to.”

“Okay,” she said, voice wavering just a bit less than before.  “Okay, but I’ll put your phone on vibrate next to you, just in case.  And I’ll leave you ice water, maybe some tea and a little bit of food-”

“No food,” he grimaced.

“Okay, okay, no food, just something to drink.  And you’ll call me? If you need anything at all?”

He nodded slowly, neck stiff as he moved.  “Of course.”

“Okay,” she nodded again.  “I better get ready.  You want more medicine?”

“No,” he said quietly as he lay back on the pillow.  “Didn’t help.”  He was panting slightly, breaths coming in uneven puffs, but he managed a grin as she put her hand on his forehead.  Still too warm, but nothing alarming.

“Do you mind closing the curtains when you get up?” he asked.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his feverish cheek.  “Sure.”

* * *

He tucked under the blankets after she headed to the bathroom to get dressed, bundling the thick covers tightly around his shoulders.   _Cold again, wonderful._  A shiver ran through him and his fingers fisted tightly in his hair, pulling on it to try and relieve the throbbing in his skull.  At least it was dark again in the room, the light from the slowly rising sun outside had felt as if it was burning straight through his eyes and deep into his head.

He half-listened to the sounds of her getting ready for the day as he drifted somewhere between awake and asleep, his headache the only thing keeping him from slipping fully into slumber.  After a time, he heard her place a few items on the nightstand next to him and he managed to pull his eyes open to meet hers.

“Canteen of ice water, thermos of tea, and here’s your phone,” she said, laying the items on the table within reach.  She pointed to the floor, “I brought you a bucket, just in case, and the painkillers are still there if you change your mind.  Anything else?”

He forced a smile; it was the least he could do to put her at least somewhat at ease before she headed out.  “Thank you,” he rasped.  “Have a good day, Emma.”

She touched his head and he let her, though he knew his temperature hadn’t changed since the last time she checked, or the time before that.

“I love you,” he whispered.

He saw the slight quiver in her lip at his words but the familiar strength crept into her eyes, too.

“I love you, too,” she said, fingers lingering on his cheek.  “I’ll see you later.”

In a moment, she was gone, footsteps down the stairs and the soft close of the door the last sounds before the house was quiet.  He vaguely heard her car pulling out of the driveway and puttering noisily away before he let out the low groan he’d been holding in for what felt like hours.

He rolled over onto his stomach, forehead pressed hard into the pillow as his hand and wrist rubbed furiously at the back of his head and neck.  His head _hurt_ , more than he’d wanted to admit to Emma.  She didn’t need to be so afraid for him, he knew he’d be fine, he’d had severe headaches like this before, with the same side effects each time.  Granted, being on solid ground was far less nauseating than the roll and pitch of his ship, but his gut still churned with each beat of pain, threatening to bring up his supper from last night.

He might have fallen asleep like that, he wasn’t sure, but he soon found himself sweating again, kicking off the blankets roughly as he twisted onto his back.  He threw his arm across his eyes with a low moan.

“Killian?” he heard from just outside the room.  “Are you okay?”

_Emma?  What was she doing back alrea-_

“It’s me, Snow,” she said from the hallway.

He pulled his arm off his face and turned to the doorway where Snow White stood hesitantly.   _Not Emma then._  

“I apologise, m’lady,” he rasped weakly, tucking his scarred wrist under the blankets quickly, “but I’m afraid I’m not quite up for company.”  He didn’t really mind her seeing his blunted arm, Emma and her family had made it clear that he was fully one of them, missing hand and all.  But he still had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of being so completely accepted and, besides, old habits were hard to break.

“That’s kind of why I’m here,” she said with a soft smile.  “If that’s all right with you?”

“Emma asked you over?”

Snow shook her head.  “She mentioned you weren’t feeling well, and I needed to get out of the loft with Neal.  Big storm coming, we’re likely to lose power over there.  I thought I’d get a head start cooking for the week here and being available in case you need anything, if you don’t mind having us downstairs while you rest?”

He swallowed, not quite sure what to make of her offer.  While he could feel the subtle electricity of the storm gathering in the air, knew her older building was prone to blackouts, as Emma explained the sudden loss of power, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was using the excuse as a chance to take care of him.  And he wasn’t sure what to make of _that_ , either.

“I’ll be fine, Your Majesty,” Killian murmured.  “Really, no need to watch over me, I assure you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you.  Neal and I will just be downstairs cooking, totally minding our own business.”  He smirked, hearing the half-truths as she continued.  “And if you _do_ need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

“Fair enough,” he said quietly.  She smiled and went downstairs.

He lay his arm across his eyes once more, his smile fading only as he slipped into a dreamless, fevered sleep.

* * *

Snow lowered the flame under the pot on the stove, the bubbling of the soup calming to a simmer as she put the lid on.  Neal had fallen asleep in the pack ‘n’ play Emma kept for him and she’d just pulled the two casseroles from the oven when the soup had finally started boiling.  She turned her attention back to the brownie batter in the bowl on the counter.

The storm had started in the last half hour, gusting wind whipping the rain in diagonal streaks across the world outside, and it looked like it meant to keep them housebound for at least the rest of the day, if not well into the night.  She hoped David and Emma were inside the station and not running around town somewhere in this weather.  It was quieter lately in Storybrooke - which was nice after the last year of mayhem and unwanted adventure - but there was always _something_ going on, however minor.  She just wished the only two officers of the town would finally catch a break and get to stay indoors during the violent winds and harsh rains.

“Storm is still no reason we can’t have good food,” she mused as she beat an egg into the chocolate batter.

A loud _thump_ on the ceiling above froze her in place.  She dropped the spoon in the mixing bowl and glanced quickly at the sleeping baby before rushing up the stairs.  She reached Emma and Killian’s room and hesitated at the doorway.  Killian was half-leaned over the far side of the bed, she could see his shoulders tensing as his body heaved tightly, heard the sound of wet splattering into a bucket he must have at his side.

While every mothering instinct in her screamed to go to him, she forced herself to stay just outside until he was done.  She didn’t know him all that well, this legendary captain and pirate she remembered first from history books and stories, and now as the man her daughter loved. But she _did_ know that he was private with his pain, preferring to keep his weakness or signs of suffering to himself.  She could give him that, at least for a few minutes.

He finally finished, quiet gasping the only sound from the room, though he stayed where he was.  She stepped in, knocking softly on the door before walking around the bed to where he faced.

“I’ll clean that out for you, if you’re done,” she said gently.  She tried not to notice the scarred end of his wrist that rested on the bed, she had never seen him without his brace before, and she couldn’t help thinking that, without it, he seemed so much more… vulnerable.

He looked up, his face flushed from exertion.  “You don’t have to do-”

“I know,” she interrupted, reaching for the bottle of water on the floor that he must have dropped, the noise she’d heard downstairs.  She opened the canteen and passed it to him, trading it for the bucket he clenched in his hand.  He took a sip, swished it in his mouth, and spit it into the bucket she held.  He took another drink, this time swallowing it with a grimace.  He handed the canteen back with shaking fingers.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he rasped as he leaned back wearily onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

“I think we’ve been through enough together that you can call me ‘Snow’.”  She put the canteen back on the table and nodded to his clothes.  “I’ll bring you a clean shirt.  Which drawer?”

He glanced down at the small splash of sick that had landed on his t-shirt.  “Second on the left.  Please.”

She took the bucket to the bathroom and dumped it’s contents in the toilet.  After rinsing it, she went back to the room and grabbed a light grey t-shirt from the drawer, turned back to the bed, and gasped.

Killian lay on his side, shirt removed, sweat standing out across his naked torso as he panted weakly.  But it was the scars that striped across his back that halted her where she stood.  Lines of varying width and length criss-crossed sharply from his neck to his waist, _dozens_ of them.  There were a few shorter scars as if from knife wounds, along with two angry burns - one on his shoulder, the other just above his hip.  She wondered briefly if the stab wound David had given him in Isaac's world had mapped itself to the history written on his skin.  Some of the scars were mostly faded, ghosts of the past, others raised slightly in ropes of white scar tissue, all memories of a more violent time in his life, a time she could have easily forgotten with the quiet domesticity he now shared with Emma.

He heard her, he must have, and he twisted to look at her.  Seeing her stare, he blushed, the fevered pink on his cheeks deepening to a bright scarlet as he rolled flat on his back to hide his past.  A few other scars dotted his chest, but not nearly like what she’d seen already.

She shook her head to force herself from her thoughts.  “Are those from Hades?” she asked quietly as she stepped closer.  She put the bucket on the floor next to the bed and passed him the shirt.

“No,” he said as he sat up a bit.  He shrugged into the soft cotton.  “Emma healed those.  No scars from him.”

No scars maybe, no physical reminder, but Snow knew he’d had nightmares on and off since returning from the dead just a few months ago, though she wouldn’t tell him that.  Emma had asked her to be discrete about it when she came for advice and she was going to try her best.

“From when you were a pirate, then?”

Killian managed a weak grin as he sank back onto the bed.  “Some.”

“Oh.”  She didn’t really know what else to say, but the silence didn’t last long.

“Most were from when I was a boy,” he offered quietly as he lay his left arm across his eyes.  “Grew up on merchant ships, those in charge didn’t much care for mistakes or disobedience, regardless of how young I was at the time.”

While it warmed her to know that he trusted her to open up about his past, a past she knew very little about other than what she’d gleaned from her time spent with him, she couldn’t help feeling sad for him, for the little boy who never really got to be a child.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I had no idea.”

“It was long ago,” he murmured, eyes still closed.

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her.  “True. But pain from long ago can still hurt.”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing quickly, and she almost missed his whispered, “Aye.”

She walked back to the bathroom and grabbed a folded washcloth from the linen shelves.  Twisting on the faucet, she drenched it under the water, squeezing out the excess.  She quickly went back to the room, over to the side of the bed.

“Scoot over a bit.”  

He moved to make space for her to sit on the mattress.  “I can assure you, Lady Snow, I’m quite capable of looking after myself,” he said softly.

“I know you are,” she said.  Snow reached out and gently moved his arm, warm with fever, from across his face.  His eyes opened to meet hers, squinting from the pain in his head.  “It’s not about capable.  Sometimes you just need someone to take care of you.  Doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’re home.  Now close your eyes.”

He did, but not before she saw the glistening of moisture in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.  

She lay the wet cloth over his eyes and he jumped in surprise, teeth chattering with the cold.

“Sorry,” she rushed, “I should have warned you.”  She started to take the washcloth off but he touched her hand just then, holding it in place.

“No,” he stammered, shivering, “it actually feels good.”

Snow nodded, feeling silly for doing it a second time in as many minutes, and smoothed the wet cloth across his eyes.  She stood and slid the bucket closer to where he could reach it easily if he needed.

“Blanket?” she asked.  He nodded silently.  She pulled the covers up from where they lay bunched about his waist and tucked them around his neck and shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispered, hints of sleep tugging at his voice.  Just as quietly, he added, “Snow.”

“Sleep well, Killian.”

She went back downstairs to finish cooking.

* * *

The washcloth over his face really did feel good.  The cold cloth seemed to freeze the pounding pain that hammered at his head as furiously as the driving rain was beating the world outside.  The sounds of the thunderstorm outside calmed him as it often had during the centuries, the one force that was always the same no matter in which realm he found himself.  Killian fell asleep quickly, that much he knew, the fevered storm outside soothing the one inside him.

Thunder shook him from sleep on at least one occasion, the crash of it so loud it rattled the windows around the room.  He tried to get up then, to see how far he could make it on his own, but the fever had sapped his strength and not four paces from the door he found himself longing to be back in bed, and for the renewed throbbing at his temple to quiet.

He woke twice more to throw up, his stomach clenching painfully as he brought up nothing solid.  Each time Snow had been there after to take the bucket from his trembling grasp, to offer a drink of water, and to refresh the cloth that cooled his skin.  He was reluctant to admit how much of a comfort it was to have someone take care of him like that, like a mother would, like his mother had in the few memories he still had of her.  It had been so many years, _centuries_ , since anyone had cared for him in that way, yet Snow’s gentle kindness had the power to send him back to those same feelings of childhood, of safety and security and… home.

For all his skill with languages, for all the obscure and fancy words he prided himself for using on a regular basis, he could find nothing more meaningful to say than a heartfelt, “Thank you,” as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Familiar fingers brushed through his hair, pulling him awake with their gentle insistence.  He tugged the washcloth off his eyes, blinking in the dim lights as his eyes met familiar green ones framed in golden silk.

“Emma,” he breathed, lips turning up at the corners despite his utter _exhaustion_.

“Hey you,” she smiled softly, her hand still threading through his scalp, massaging gently.  “Feeling any better?”

“Not really,” he murmured honestly.  “Tired.”

Emma nodded and sat next to him on the bed.  “Mom said you behaved,” she said.  “Was it okay that she was here?  I should have asked you first but I figured you’d be pretty out of it.”

“It was fine,” he answered with a nod.  “I’m grateful she was.”

“Good, because they’re staying the night,” Emma grinned.  “Power’s out at the loft, the whole block actually, and we can’t get it back up until the storm quits.  So unless you want me to stay home with you, she could be here tomorrow also.”

“That’s fine.”  He reached up and pulled her hand from his head, slipping his fingers between hers and squeezing gently.  “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too,” she smiled.  “Now move over.”

He did, and she lay next to him, their hands still entwined as she nestled into his side.  She yawned quietly and he felt the warm mirrorings of sleep tugging at his eyes.  Her fingers traced lazily across his fevered skin as his headache pulsed painfully in time with his heartbeat.  The storm continued outside, raindrops pattering loudly against the house, relentlessly pounding at the world.  But there inside, with Emma’s warm weight against him, the quiet whispers of her breathing as she fell asleep, the soft sounds of a mother humming a lullaby from somewhere down the hall, he just felt home.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2: [After the Storm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6907213).


End file.
